t 

The P*»i'vaic ^£»l<ficv»" ^t il»o 

^du»»tb 3»M^U»I dtitrtvs^^ of TH<Z> n 

Af U.S. <^v«lv>1 f^st--- 
grooU^n. l^.V., 133:5. 




Glass . E(^M 
Book , ? 5-^ 



RESPONSE 



John L. Shepherd 



TO THE TOAST OF 



"The Private Soldier 



Fourth Annual DinnejR, 



Comrades and Associate Members of 
U. S. Grant Post, No. 327 



ff 



MONTAUK CLUB 

Thursday Evening, November 9, 189^ 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 



"The Private Soldier' 



Mr. Chairman, Comrades and Associate Members of U. S. 
Grant Post : In responding to a toast before so large and distin- 
guished an audience, I feel very much like that old soldier who was 
explaining to a young lady how seriously he had been wounded in 
the late war, and assured her that he was shot through the left 
breast. "How remarkable!" exclaimed the young lady; "and 
how was it that you were not killed, for that is where your heart 
is?" "Yes, I know," said the old soldier, "and that is where it 
is now, but when I was in that fight my heart was in my -mouth." 

In responding to the toast of " A Private Soldier " twenty-five 
years after the war, it will no doubt seem to many of you like a 
reminiscence of something that has been, as a great many worthy 
people are under the impression that the private soldiers were all 
killed during the late war, and that the only survivors are the 
generals, colonels and majors that one meets everywhere; but 
certain it is, that without private soldiers there can be no war antl 
no battles, and to me the private soldiers of the Union Army 
always seemed to represent in the highest type the bravery and 
patriotism of the American people; and in saying this I do not 
wish to disparage in the least our brave and gallant officers, who 
were, in most instances, worthy to be commanders in this great 
army, and a greater compliment than this it is not in my power to 
pay them. And you, gentlemen, are the guests to-night of a Post 
that bears the honored name of one of the bravest, noblest and 
gentlest generals that ever commanded an army on the face of the 
earth. General U. S. Grant. 

But it is a well-known fact that incompetent generals have 
won great victories with a brave and intelligent army, and that no 
great general ever won a victory with an ignorant or cowardly army. 

A general going into battle does so with the knowledge that, if 
successful, his praise shall be told in song and story, and he shall 
be handed down to coming generations in marble, stone and bronze. 



A private soldier goes with the knowledge, that if he shall fall he 
will, in all probability, be cast into the long bne of trenches with 
the unknown dead, and his bravery and patriotism, as an indi- 
vidual, shnll be as if he had never existed, although he has done 
that for his country which only a brave and noble man can do — 
died for it. 

In 1861, in tlie midst of the greatest peace and prosperity ever 
enjoyed by any nation upon the face of the earth, there burst upon 
this fair land of ours, with but little warning, one of the most 
gigantic and bitter civil wars known in the history of the world. 
It found this great nation ignorant of the art and science of war, 
but it found its citizens loyal and intelligent ; it found a nation 
without an army or navy, but it found its citizens brave and patri- 
otic, and, rallying by thousands and thousands, they enrolled them- 
selves into the ranks of the army, and when a little more than four 
years had passed away it found the nation victorious and in posses- 
sion of the largest and most intelligent army ever gathered together 
upon the face of the earth. It was an army that had fought 
battles that made the nations of the old world stand aghast, and 
upon the mighty waters of the deep there floated a navy that had 
revolutionized all the navies of the world. And it is my honor to 
speak here to-night of the men wlio composed this army, fought 
these battles and won these victories — the private soldiers of the 
Union Army. 

Strange as it may seem, and despite all these facts, and while 
the memory of this long war, with all its horrors, is still a vivid 
remembrance in the hearts of more than a million of its survivors, 
ere the wounds of the shot and shell and sword have healed, we 
witness the astonishing spectacle of a large number of the citizens 
of this country, who are enjoying the peace, prosperity and liberty 
that came to this nation through the death of its citizen soldiers, 
complaining of the cost and disputing the pensions made and pro- 
vided for by the Government and accusing their fellow-citizens of 
mercenary motives; and while it is possible that there was a number 
of men attracted to the army by the large bounties offered, yet I 
sincerely believe that the great mass of the soldiers of the Union 
Army were inspired by the most sincere motives of patriotism. 

Was it a mercenary motive that inspired the men to lay the 
pontoon bridge across the Rappahannock River at Fredericksburg, 
in face of the roaring cannon and death-dealing rifles, and prompted 



their comrades to take llie places that death made vacant, to be in 
turn sliot down and carried away by the swift-rolling river, never 
again to be seen? Was it a mercenary motive that inspired the 
fifteen thousand men that in less than an hour's time died around 
the bloody heights of Kenesaw ? Was it a mercenary motive that 
prompted our comrades to scale the heights of Lookout Mountain 
and plant our banners above the clouds in the blazing sunlight that 
makes golden the tops of these everlasting hills? Was it a merce- 
nary motive that inspired a comrade of this Post, although but a 
mere lad, to save the colors of his regiment, and for so doing he wears 
a shining mark of glory upon his forehead that must be an object 
of envy to every patriotic man who sees it? 

In no battle of this war were the bravery and intelligence of the 
private soldier shown to so great an advantage as in the battle of 
Gettysburg. It has been called the battle of the private soldiers 
from the fact that none of the names of the great generals of the 
war are connected with it. When you think of the march to the 
sea, you think of the glorious Sherman ; when you think of Cedar 
Creek, you think of the dashing Sheridan; when you think of 
Chickamauga, you think of the brave Thomas; when you think of 
Vicksburg and Richmond, you think of tlie immortal Grant ; but 
when you think of Gettysburg, you think of Meade, of Hancock, of 
Reynolds, of Sickles and others, but most of all, you think of 
Round Top and of Pickett's charge, and you think of the brave, 
patriotic private soldiers, who, realizing all there was at stake, stood 
like a living wall through the long hours, 'midst the hell of roaring 
cannon and shrieking shells, with nerve of steel and eyes aflame, 
awaiting the onward charge of the gallant foe, until they met them 
face to face upon that hilltop, from which they hurled the Southern 
legions back in terror and dismay, and met death so bravely and so 
gladly that the immortal I>incoln said of them : " We cannot 
consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground ; the brave men, living 
and dead, who have struggled here have consecrated it far above 
our power to add or detract, and the world will little note nor long 
remember what we say or do here, but it can never forget what they 
did here." 

How different, comrades, are these dear words from the lips of 
the immortal Lincoln from the hard and cruel ones that fall upon 
our ears to-day from men who owe all that they are and all that 
they will be to the bravery and patriotism of the private soldiers of 



the Union Army, who responded so nobly to their country's call ; 
fur long ere the echo of the cannon-shot from Fort Sumter had 
ceased to vibrate over the hills and valleys of the North, the mer- 
chant with his clerk, the farmer with his laborer, the mechanic with 
his apprentice, all stood shoulder to shoulder in that long line 
of blue. 

We see them as they march away down the village streets, and 
through the broad avenues of the great cities, with swords and 
ba)'^onets flashing in the broad sunlight, and their colors floating 
proudly over them, as they keep step to the weird music of the war, 
cheered again and again by the thousands and thousands who 
throng the streets, among whom are the mothers, wives and sweet- 
hearts, who, with aching hearts, follow them with eyes that are 
dimmed with tears until they can see them no more, and with a 
choking sob and a wave of the hand bid them a farewell that to 
thousands and thousands of them means forever. 

It was Napoleon Bonaparte who said in his arrogance that 
great armies never accomplished anything ; that it was Julius Ccesar 
who conquered Gaul, and not the Roman legions ; that it was 
Frederick the Great who successfully defended Prussia against the 
nations of Europe, and not the Prussian army ; that it was Han- 
nibal who crossed the Alps and knocked at the gates of terror-stricken 
Rome, and not the Carthaginian soldiers. Yet it was the brave 
private soldiers of the English army who stood in those great 
squares on the battlefield of Waterloo when Wellington, in despair, 
exclaimed, "Would to Crod that night or Blucher would come ! " 
It was the indomitable bravery of these soldiers that withstood the 
wild, fierce charge of that Old Guard that had never known defeat, 
that hurled them routed, broken and defeated from the bloody 
field, and sent Napoleon Bonaparte to die a prisoner at the Isle of 
St. Helena. 

But Napoleon or Csesar or Hannibal never commanded an 
army of intelligent American citizens. Their armies were mostly 
composed of mercenaries, whose only motive was that of conquest 
and pillage. But in this great army of intelligent, thinking men, 
the eyes that looked along the barrel of the rifle were no less keen 
than those of the man who carried the sword ; and the private 
soldiers who wore the blue blouse were, in thousands and thousands 
of instances, no less intelligent than the men who wore the shoulder- 
straps ; and there never was in the history of the world an army 



that accomplished so mu( h, over so vast a space of country, and 
over so gallant a foe, in so short a space of time, as was accom- 
plished by the army of the Union in this war. And I say here 
to-night, with all due respect to our brave and gallant officers, that 
our su( cess in this great war was largely due to the bravery and 
intelligence of the private soldiers of the Union Army. 

But now, comrades, more than a quarter of a century has come 
and gone since grim.-visaged war smoothed its wrinkled front, and 
the angel of peace spread its loving wings over this fair land of 
ours, and death is fast calling the roll that is so swiftly depleting 
our ranks, and as comrade after comrade answers to his name and 
bravely and hopefully steps into the dark shadows of the valley of 
death, and from out those dark shadows, up into the golden sun- 
shine of that eternal camping ground of glory and of happiness, 
surely they shall hear the welcome words, "Well done, thou good 
and faithful servant," and they sliall clasp the hands of their com- 
rades who have gone before them. 

The heavy years of time now weigh us down, and the hot 
blood of youth no longer leaps and courses through our veins, but 
we can never forget, and as our lines grow narrower and narrower, 
and we draw nearer and nearer one to the other, and clasp hands 
in fraternity, charity and loyalty, we see back through the misty 
years of the past all the horrors of that long war, and upon 
memory's panorama we see the long line of trenches that wound 
and scar the earth, holding in their narrow confines the nation's 
dead. And as we gaze, lo, they open up, and there come trooping 
forth all the missing, all the unknown dead, and with the living 
stand once more beneath their flaunting banners in battle's dread 
array, awaiting the command that shall send them forth to victory 
or to death. 

Then, in memory's fancy, we hear the loud-mouthed cannon 
growl and roar, rending and cracking the heavens with their dread- 
fid clamor, and as peal upon peal from these iron-throated monsters 
bursts upon the vibrating air, men grow speechless with terror ; the 
drum of the listening ear bursts, and men are dumb. All nature 
stands aghast. The trees of the forest seem to rock and sway in the 
dreadful crash, and the firm and solid earth trembles as with fear; 
all other sounds become silent and are lost in the mighty uproar. 

For long hours brave men lie with their faces close pressed to 
the quivering earth, listening to the ghastly music of the shrieking 



shells ns they speed upon their mission of murder, ])loughing their 
way through the living mass. A mighty roar, a withering blast, as 
the deadly shells burst, and men are covered with the blood and 
brains of their dead comrades. The air is aflame with blazing 
bombs and great fiery bolts that are belched forth as fast as men 
can ram them down the throats of hundreds of roaring cannons, 
that blaze out in the dark, sulphurous air like great, fiery dragons of 
death, that scream and shriek and whirr as they fall in the mad- 
dened and struggling mass, bursting with terrible noise and clatter, 
and scattering the arrows of death everywhere. 

Then there falls upon all the stillness of death. The supreme 
hour has come — the hour of the charge. The fierce, rolling drum 
breaks out upon the still air; the shrill blast of the bugles awakes 
the echoes again and again ; the colors are unfurled, and flaunt and 
flutter in the air as if filled with a longing to lead their brave 
defenders on to immortal honors in their defense ; swords are 
drawn, the sharp-pointed bayonets are fixed upon the rifle. " Steady, 
men, steady ! " rings along the line. The command to charge is 
given, and then, with nerves of steel and hearts of stone, with the 
mad blood of patriotism leaj)ing through their veins, with a prayer 
in their hearts for the dear ones at home, with a wild cheer, as if 
bidding defiance to death, they start across that broad field through 
the withering tempest of hissing iron and lead. 

Again the loud-mouthed cannon thunder and roar, as with 
shot and shell they tear great, bloody gaps in the ranks of the 
advancing columns, that are quickly closed again and again. 
Volley upon volley from thousands and thousands of death-dealing 
rifles rend and crack tlie air, as if the mighty universe itself were 
being rent and torn in twain. Long sheets of fiery flame leap from 
the mouth of the deadly musket, as if eager to destroy all life and 
form. From every rock and fence and tree and wall speed the 
swift-winged bullets with the sting of death. The deadly hum and 
the sickening thud of these swift-winged messengers of death beat 
upon the bodies of these brave men like the sound of hail upon the 
hard earth, and, with a shriek and a cry, the dead and wounded 
are falling like the leaves from the frosted trees. 

But onwarti and onward go the private soldiers, clamoring at 
the portals of death ; on and on through the dark clouds of heavy 
smoke that press close down to the quivering earth, as if to veil 
from a mercifid God the dreadful slaughter. For a moment the 



dark pall rises, and all eyes are turned to the emblems of the 
nation's glory that flaunt and flutter in the smoke and flame, with 
every star and stripe blazing with the light of victory, and then 
with wild, tempestuous cheer, again the private soldiers rush madly 
on, leaving behind them such a trail of dead and dying that the 
old reaper. Death, stands aghast. 

The long field is crossed, and the men of the North and the 
men of the South glare into the angry eyes of one another — a pause, 
a shout, and they are cheek by jowl with death. 

Now the loud-mouthed cannons are silent and dumb, and their 
hot, white breath has melted away with the smoke and flame into 
the clear heavens, and the great, bloody gaps through which the 
iron wave of death rolled are all closed up. The battle is now with 
steel that is cold, and men have neither time nor space to fire and 
load their rifles, but hand to hand, and man to man, they fight, 
and with sword and bayonet seek the life blood of their fellow-man, 
and brave souls float away on a bloody tide to the shores of another 
world, and all is blood and horror and rage. The glistening bayo- 
nets clash and ring, as with stroke and thrust angry men plunge 
them into the quivering flesh and blood, tearing great, gaping 
wounds that let out the life blood of some loving mother's son. 
With muskets clubbed men are beaten brainless to the earth, and 
the cold steel of the bayonet grows warm and warps in the hot life 
blood, as it drinks and saps it away. Death reigns supreme. 

The long lines reel and stagger in the smoke and flame, falling 
over the bodies of their dead comrades, who lie staring at the sun 
with terror-stricken eyes that seem to be bursting from their sockets. 
Wounded men, in mortal agony, with a bloody foam oozing from 
their pale lips, bite and claw the hard earth and beg for death at 
the hands of their comrades. With a wild cry, men fall to the 
earth never again to look upon the face of their fellow-men. The 
hot rays of the sun beat down upon this struggling mass like the 
blasts from a fiery furnace until men can scarcely bear the weight of 
their clothes. The burning powder and the flowing blood mingle 
in a horrible odor that hits and offends the sense of smell until the 
stomach turns and rises in revolt ; the brain whirls with a mad 
horror and the heart beats in a wild frenzy of terror and excitement. 
With clothes that are rent and torn, and faces that are black and 
begrimed with powder and smeared with blood, men are no longer 
human, but are all that is wild and fierce and cruel, and, like the 



wild and ferocious wolf, whose tongue is aflame with the taste of 
blood, they seek to devour one another. 

Weaponless men grapple in fierce fight, and slip in the life 
blood of friend and foe upon that dreadful field, as with horrid 
curse they tear from the firm earth the rough and rugged rocks, 
with which they return blow for blow, and, laughing at death, leave 
the world together. Around the colors death holds high carnival. 
A flash of steel through the air, a cry of agony as the swift sword 
cleaves its way through the brains of the color-bearer, but ere he 
falls to the earth, willing hands grab the colors and hold them aloft 
and flaunt them in the face of death ; a hiss of a bullet and the life 
blood of another comrade adds a deeper crimson to the dear old 
flag that never trails the earth, but is borne aloft to victory. 

The shout of the victor, the cry of despair, the shrieks of the 
wounded and dying, all mingle in a horrible clamor upon the quiv- 
ering air; with great, gasping wounds men go fiercely on, reeling 
like drunken men, with eyes aflame and gleaming with hatred and 
despair, determined to strii •^ another blow, but exhausted nature 
fails them, and with one last effort, with a mad cry of defiance, 
they hurl their useless weapons at the foe and fall cjuivering into 
the arms of death. 

A great shout rises above the awful din. It is the glad cry of 
victory-, and the enemy is retreating in a frigl ' ned and demoral- 
ized mass, and brave men become cowards and madly run to save 
the lives they had been urging death to take. A mighty roar 
breaks upon the appalled ear, and the earth quakes as if nature's 
elements were at war one with another. It is the mad, wild rush 
of the cavalry after die retreating foe, and with rattling sabers 
and jingling spurs are urging on their maddened steeds, whose 
wild hoofbeats trample out the life and soul of the helpless 
wounded, whose cry of agony mingles with the shrill neighs of the 
wounded horses, as they dash disemboweled and riderless away. 
But on and on ride these maddened men, hewing to the right and 
hewing to the left, like demons incarnate carrying the red slaughter 
on every side, and their horses' hoofs grow red in heroes blood : 
but on and on ride these maddened men, with sabers that are drip- 
ping with the blood of their fellow-men, with ears that are closed 
to the cry of mercy ; with loud and exultant cries, on they ride to 
victory and to death. 



The battle is over, the victory is won, and all over that blood- 
stained field, with their pale faces upturned to the pitying heavens, 
lie the fathers, brothers and sons of the brave, patriotic and lov- 
ing mothers, wives and daughters, whose tears shall flow and whose 
hearts shall ache as they wait in vain for that return which shall 
never, never be — the return of these dead private soldiers. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



013 787 325 4 % 




